"What is it?" yelled Hawk, struggling to be heard over the screaming creature and the roaring of the flames.
"The exit's just ahead," yelled Storm, "but something's got there before us."
"What do you mean, 'something'?" Hawk hefted his axe and peered through the thickening smoke but couldn't see anything. The flames pressed closer.
Storm's hands clenched into fists. Stray magic sputtered on the air before him. "Them. They've found us. The Pale Men."
They came out of the darkness and into the light, shifting forms that hovered on the edge of meaning and recognition. Smoke drifted around and through them, like ghostly ectoplasm. Hawk slowly lowered his axe as it grew too heavy for him. His vision grayed in and out, and the roar and heat of the fire seemed far away and unimportant. The world rolled back upon itself, back into yesterday and beyond.
Memories surged through him, of all the people he'd been, some so strange to him now he hardly recognized them. Some smiled sadly at what he'd become, while others pointed accusing fingers or turned their heads away. His mind began to drift apart, fragmenting into forgotten dreams and hopes and might-have-beens. He screamed soundlessly, a long, wordless howl of denial, and his thoughts slowly began to clear. He was who he was because of all the people he'd been, and even if he didn't always like that person very much, he knew he couldn't go back. He'd paid too high a price for the lessons he'd learned to turn his back on them now. He concentrated on his memories, hugging them to him jealously, and the ghosts of his past faded away and were gone. He was Hawk, and no one was going to take that away from him. Not even himself.
The world lurched and he was back in the narrow stone corridor again, choking on the thick smoke and flinching away from the roaring flames as they closed in around him. The rest of the team were standing still as statues, eyes vague and far away. Some of them were already beginning to look frayed and uncertain, their features growing indistinct as the Pale Men leeched the pasts out of them. Hawk glared briefly at the shifting figures shining brightly through the smoke and grabbed Storm's shoulder. For a moment his fingers seemed to sink into the sorcerer's flesh, and then it suddenly hardened and became solid, as though Hawk's touch had reaffirmed its reality. Shape and meaning flooded back into Storm's face, and he shook his head sharply, as though waking from a nagging dream. He looked at Hawk, and then at the Pale Men, and his face darkened.
"Get out of the way, you bastards!"
He thrust one outstretched hand at the drifting figures, and a blast of raw magic exploded in the corridor. It beat on the air like a captured wild bird, and the Pale Men were suddenly gone, as though they'd never been there at all. Hawk looked questioningly at Storm.
"Is that it? Wave your hand and they disappear?"
"Of course," said Storm. "They're only as real as you allow them to be. Now help me get the others out of here."
Hawk nodded quickly, and started pushing the others down the corridor. Their faces were already clearing as they shook off their yesterdays. Smoke filled the corridor, and a wave of roaring flame came rushing towards them. Storm howled a Word of Power, and gestured sharply with his hand, and a solid steel door was suddenly floating on the air before them. It swung open, and the SWAT team plunged through. They fell into the corridor beyond, and the door slammed shut behind him.
For a while, they all lay where they were on the cool stone floor, coughing the smoke out of their lungs and gasping at the blessedly fresh air. Eventually, they sat up and looked around them, sharing shaken but triumphant smiles. Hawk knew he was grinning like a fool, and didn't give a damn. There was nothing like almost dying to make you feel glad to be alive.
"Excuse me," said a polite, unfamiliar voice, "but can anyone tell me what I'm doing here?"
They all looked round sharply, and found that the madman Barber had brought out with them was now sitting up and looking at them, his eyes clear and sane and more than a little puzzled. Storm chuckled suddenly.
"Well, it would appear the Pale Men did some good, in spite of themselves. By calling back his memories, they made him sane again."
The ex-madman looked around him. "I have a strong feeling I'm going to regret asking this, but by any chance are we in prison?"
Hawk chuckled. "Don't worry about it. It's only temporary. Who are you?"
"Wulf Saxon. I think."
Winter rose painfully to her feet and nodded to MacReady, who had been standing patiently to one side, waiting for them to notice him. As far as Hawk could tell, the negotiator hadn't moved an inch from where they'd left him.
"Mission over," said Winter, just a little breathlessly. "Any trouble on your end, Mac?"
"Not really."
He glanced back down the corridor. Hawk followed his gaze and for the first time took in the seven dead men, dressed in prisoner's uniforms, lying crumpled on the corridor floor. Hawk gave the unarmed negotiator a hard look, and he smiled back enigmatically.
"Like I said: I have a charmed life."
I'm not going to ask, thought Hawk firmly. "Well," he said, in the tone of someone determined to change the subject. "Another successful mission accomplished."
Winter looked at him. "You have got to be joking. All the creatures we were supposed to capture are dead, and Hell Wing is a blazing inferno! It'll cost a fortune to rebuild. How the hell can it be a success?"
Fisher grinned. "We're alive, aren't we?"
Back in the Governor's office, the SWAT team stood more or less at attention, and waited patiently for the Governor to calm down. The riots had finally been crushed, and peace restored to Damnation Row, but only after a number of fatalities among both inmates and prison staff. The damage to parts of the prison was extensive, but that wasn't too important; it would just give the inmates something to do to keep them out of mischief. Nothing like a good building project to keep prisoners busy. Not to mention too exhausted to think about rioting again.
Even so, it probably hadn't been the best time to inform the Governor that all his potentially valuable Hell Wing inmates were unfortunately deceased, and the Wing itself was a burnt-out ruin.
The Governor finally stopped shouting, partly because he was beginning to lose his voice, and threw himself into the chair behind his desk. He glared impartially at the SWAT team, and drummed his fingers on his desk. Hawk cleared his throat cautiously, and the Governor's glare fell on him like a hungry predator just waiting for its prey to provide an opening.
"Yes, Captain Hawk? You have something to say, perhaps? Something that will excuse your pitiable performance on this mission, and give some indication as to why I shouldn't lock you all up in the dirtiest, foulest dungeon I can find and then throw the key down the nearest sewer?"
"Well," said Hawk, "things could have turned out worse." The Governor's face went an interesting shade of puce, but Hawk pressed on anyway. "Our main objective, according to your orders, was to prevent the inmates of Hell Wing from escaping and wreaking havoc in the city. I think we can safely assume the city is no longer in any danger from those inmates. Hell Wing itself is somewhat scorched and blackened, I'll admit, but solid stone walls are pretty fire-resistant, as a rule. A lot of scrubbing and a lick of paint, and the place'll be as good as new. And on top of all that, we managed to rescue Wulf Saxon from Messerschmann's Portrait, and restore his sanity. I don't think we did too badly, all things considered."
He waited with interest to see what the Governor's response would be. The odds favored a coronary, but he wouldn't rule out a stroke. The Governor took several deep breaths to calm himself down, and fixed Hawk with a withering stare.
"Wulf Saxon has disappeared. But we were able to learn a few things of interest about him, by consulting our prison records. In his time, some twenty-three years ago, Saxon was a well-known figure in this city. He was a thief, a forger, and a confidence trickster. He was also an ex-Guard, ex-city Councilor, and the founder of three separate religions, two of which are still doing very well for themselves on the Street of Gods. He's a co
nfirmed troublemaker, a revolutionary, and a major pain in the arse, and you've let him loose in the city again!"
Hawk smiled, and shook his head. "We had him captured. Your people let him loose."
"He's still an extremely dangerous individual that this city was well rid of, until you became involved!"
Fisher leaned forward suddenly. "If he's that dangerous, does that mean there's a reward for his capture?"
"Good point, Isobel," said Hawk, and they both looked expectantly at the Governor.
The Governor decided to ignore both Hawk and Fisher, for the sake of his blood pressure, and turned to Winter. "Regretfully, I have no choice but to commend you and your SWAT team for your actions. Officially, at least. The city Council has chosen to disregard my objections, and has ordered me to congratulate you on your handling of the situation." He scowled at Winter. "Well done."
"Thank you," said Winter graciously. "We were just doing our job. Have you discovered any more about the forces behind the riot?"
The Governor sniffed, and shuffled through the papers on his desk. "Unlikely as it seems, the whole thing may have been engineered to cover a single prisoner's escape. A man named Ritenour. He disappeared early on in the riot, and there's a growing body of evidence that he received help in doing so from both inside and outside the prison."
Winter frowned. "A riot this big, and this bloody, just to free one man? Who is this Ritenour? I've never heard of him."
"No reason why you should have," said the Governor, running his eyes quickly down the file before him. "Ritenour is a sorcerer shaman, specializing in animal magic, of all things. I wouldn't have thought there was much work for him in a city like Haven, unless he likes working with rats, but he's been here three years to our certain knowledge. He's worked with a few big names in his time, but he's never amounted to anything himself. He was in here awaiting trial for nonpayment of taxes, which is why he wasn't guarded as closely as he might have been."
"If he worked for big names in the past," said Hawk slowly, "maybe one of them arranged for him to be sprung, on the grounds he knew something important, something they couldn't risk coming out at his trial. Prisoners tend to become very talkative when faced with the possibility of a long sentence in Damnation Row."
"My people are busy checking that connection at this moment, Captain," said the Governor sharply. "They know their job. Now then, I have one last piece of business with you all, and then with any luck I can get you out of my life forever. It seems the security forces protecting the two Kings and the signing of the Peace Treaty have decided there might just be some connection between Ritenour's escape and a plot against the two Kings. I can't see it as very likely myself, but, as usual, no one's interested in my opinions. The SWAT team, including Captains Hawk and Fisher, are to report to the head of the security forces at Champion House, to discuss the situation. That's it. Now get out of my office, and let me get back to clearing up the mess you people have made of my prison."
Everyone bowed formally, except for the Governor, who ostentatiously busied himself with the files before him. Hawk and Fisher looked at each other, nodded firmly, and advanced on the Governor. They each took one end of his desk, lifted it up, and overturned it. Papers fluttered on the air like startled butterflies. The Governor started to rise spluttering from his chair, and then dropped quickly back into it as Hawk and Fisher leaned over him, their eyes cold and menacing.
"Don't shout at us," said Hawk. "We've had a hard day."
"Right," said Fisher.
The Governor looked at them both. At that moment, all the awful stories he'd heard about Hawk and Fisher seemed a lot more believable.
"If you've quite finished intimidating a superior officer, can we get out of here?" said Winter. "Those security types don't like to be kept waiting. Besides, if we're lucky, we might get to meet the Kings themselves."
"That'll make a change," said Hawk as he and Fisher headed unhurriedly for the door.
"Yeah," said Fisher. "If we're really lucky, maybe we'll get to intimidate them too."
"I wish I thought you were joking," said Winter.
Chapter Two
Something to Believe In
When it rains in Haven, it really rains. The rain hammered down without mercy, beating with spiteful persistence at every exposed surface. Ritenour—sorcerer, shaman, and now ex-convict—looked around him with interest as he strode along behind the taciturn man-at-arms called Horn. They were both protected by Ritenour's rain-avoidance spell, but everyone else in the crowded street looked like so many half-drowned sewer rats. The rains had barely begun when Ritenour had been thrown into Damnation Row, but they were in full force now, as blindly unstoppable as death or taxes. A continuous wave of water three inches deep washed down the cobbled street, past the overflowing gutters. Ritenour stamped enthusiastically through the water, smiling merrily at those people he splashed. He ignored the furious looks and muttered curses, secure in the knowledge that Horn wouldn't allow him to come to any harm.
Ritenour's smile widened as they made their way through the Northside. He didn't know where he was going, but he didn't give a damn. He was back in the open air again, and even the stinking streets of the Northside seemed light and fresh after the filthy rat-hole he'd shared with three other magic-users on Sorcerers' Row. In fact, he felt so good about things in general, he didn't even think about killing the insensitive men and women who crowded around him in the packed street. There'd be time for such things later.
He studied the back of the man in front of him thoughtfully. Horn hadn't said much to him since collecting him from the professionally anonymous men who'd smuggled him out of Damnation Row under cover of the riot. Apparently Horn fancied himself as the strong, silent type. Deeds, not words—that sort of thing. Ritenour sighed happily.
Such types were delightfully easy to manipulate. Not that he had any such thing in mind at the moment, of course. Horn was taking him to Daniel Madigan, and you don't kill the goose that may produce golden eggs. Not until you've got your hands on the golden eggs, anyway.
Ritenour wondered, not for the first time, what a terrorist's terrorist like Madigan wanted with a lowly sorcerer shaman like him. Arranging the prison riot must have cost Madigan a pretty penny; he had to be expecting Ritenour to provide something of more than equal value in return. Ritenour shrugged. Whatever it was, he was in no position to argue. He'd only been in gaol for tax evasion, but all too soon he'd have ended up in Court under a truthspell, and then they'd have found out all about his experiments in human as well as animal vivisection. They'd have hanged him for that, even though his experiments had been pursued strictly in the interests of sorcerous research. Madigan had rescued him in the very nick of time, whether the terrorist knew it or not.
He let his mind drift on to other matters. Horn had promised him, on Madigan's behalf, a great deal of money if he would agree to work with the terrorist on a project of mutual interest. Ritenour was always interested in large amounts of money. People had no idea how expensive sorcerous research was these days, particularly when your subjects insisted on dying. But it had to be said that Madigan was not the sort of person Ritenour would have chosen to work with. The man was an idealist, and fanatically devoted to his Cause: the overthrowing and destruction of Outremer. He was very intelligent, inhumanly devious and determined, and had raised violence and murder to a fine art. Ritenour frowned slightly. Whatever Madigan wanted him for, it was bound to be unpleasant and not a little dangerous. In the event he decided to go through with this project, he'd better be careful to get most of his money up front. Just in case he had to disappear in a hurry.
Horn stopped suddenly before a pleasantly anonymous little tavern tucked away in a side court. Ritenour looked automatically for a sign, to see what the place was called, but there didn't seem to be one. Which implied the tavern was both expensive and exclusive (you either knew about it already or you didn't matter), and therefore very security conscious. Just the sort of place he'd
expect to find Madigan. The best place to lie low was out in the open, hidden behind a cloud of money and privilege.
Horn held open the door for him, and then followed him into the dimly lit tavern. People sat around tables in small, intimate groups, talking animatedly in lowered voices. No one looked up as Horn led the way through the tables to a hidden stairway at the back of the room. The stairs led up to a narrow hallway, and Horn stopped before the second door. It had no number on it, but there was an inconspicuous peephole. Horn knocked three times, paused, and then knocked twice. Ritenour smiled. Secret knocks, no less. Terrorists did so love their little rituals. He wondered hopefully if there'd be a secret password as well, but the door swung open almost immediately, suggesting someone had already studied Horn through the peephole. Ritenour assumed a carefully amiable expression and followed Horn in. The door shut firmly behind him, and he heard four separate bolts sliding into place. He didn't look back, and instead put on his best open smile and looked casually about him.
The room was surprisingly large for tavern lodgings, and very comfortably furnished. Apparently, Madigan was one of those people who believed the mind works best when the body is well cared for. Ritenour was glad they had something in common. Most of the fanatics he'd had dealings with in the past had firmly believed in the virtues of poverty and making do with the barest essentials. Luxuries were only for the rich and the decadent. They also believed in compulsory hair shirts and cold baths, and had shown no trace whatsoever of a sense of humor. Ritenour wouldn't have dealt with such killjoys at all if his experiments hadn't required so many human subjects. His main problem had always been obtaining them discreetly. After all, he couldn't just go out into the streets and drag passersby into his laboratory. People would talk.
A young man and attractive woman, seated at a table at the far end of the room, were keeping a watchful eye on him. Ritenour gave them his best charming smile. Another man was standing guard by the door, arms folded across his massive chest. He had to be the largest man Ritenour had ever seen, and he was watching Ritenour closely. The sorcerer nodded to him politely, uncomfortably aware that Horn hadn't moved from his side since they'd entered the room. Ritenour didn't need to be told what would happen if Madigan decided he couldn't use him after all. Or, to be more exact, what might happen. Ritenour might be unarmed, but he was never helpless. He always kept a few nasty surprises up his metaphorical sleeves, just in case of situations like this. You met all sorts, as a working sorcerer.